should be favourably received. The desired dispensation was granted, and Buondelmonte was now free-free but for one moment, the next his freedom was yielded up to Imma.

La Donati held a conference with those present, who were Carlo, two aged men of the Donati, Buondelmonte, and two of his near kinsmen. They were unanimous in believing that the recent attack was the fruit of Mosca Lamberti's jealous desire to remove a rival; and they were of opinion that, were the marriage between Buondelmonte and Imma once solemnized, the attempt would not be repeated, as being then useless. Therefore, for the safety of the noble young Guelph, they counselled that the marriage should take place that night, unknown to any one but themselves, to guard against any danger of interruption; and that Buondelmonte should not quit the palace till he became the husband of its heiress, by the performance of the ceremony within the private chapel by the family confessor.

At another time Imma might have pleaded against this privation of all her little female privileges-the naming of the weddingday, the preparation, the bridal pageantry, even the consideration of dress; but now she cheerfully sacrificed all to the consideration of her lover's safety, and received his joyful thanks to her frank

consent.

But few preparations could be made consistent with the desired secrecy. La Donati sent a private missive to the archbishop, and retained the family confessor in readiness; and the rest of that day the Palazzo Donati was the abode of self-gratulating ambition and happy love.

As the hour drew near Buondelmonte (from whose side Imma had withdrawn to meet her confessor) remembered how different were his feelings now from what they had been on the day appointed for his first intended marriage. Then he was immersed in a sullen, deep despair which appeared to him like fortitude, and he thought he could have gone through his painful task with all the firmness of desperation. Now his heart throbbed with all the agitations of joy and hope, and he feared that his enthusiasm would unman him and make him appear ridiculous.

To compose his exulting feelings he took his way to the private chapel of the palace. The chapel was lighted by a brazen lamp that swung from the groined roof, and the wax candles on the altar showed the marble crucifix and other decorations on the superb altar cloth. On the right of the altar was a monument erected to the memory of the late lord of that palace, before which the filial piety of Imma had lighted a small silver lamp. She had also entwined a chaplet of laurel, myrtle, and cypress, and crowned with it the top of the funeral urn. There were some monumental tablets against the walls, some images in niches, and a confessional. The high-backed devotional chairs were ranged in order;

the dark-red curtains were drawn over the windows; the floor was covered with a thick mat, and at the entrance was a bronze vessel for holy water.

Buondelmonte had had no time for adornment in honour of his nuptials; but as he had always paid attention to his person on his visits to the Palazzo Donati, he appeared in the usual feast-day attire of a Florentine gallant of that period-a murrey-coloured loose round upper coat, girdled by a black leather belt with a silver buckle; murrey-coloured hose, ornamented with a silk rose where they met the date-coloured half-boots; a murrey-coloured round cap with a black plume was in his hand; his scarlet mantle he had left in the grand hall of the palace.

After some time a small side door opened and discovered a private staircase, on which appeared two old and confidential domestics bearing thick wax tapers to light the bridal party into the chapel. The family confessor, in full vestments, entered first, followed by a clerk. The Widow Donati led in Imma, habited in a simple white robe, with a thin veil thrown over her unornamented braids of hair. Carlo Donati, with his two aged kinsmen and the two cousins of Buondelmonte, followed them. The two domestics, when all the rest had entered, closed the door and stood on each side of it with their lighted tapers. Buondelmonte, on the appearance of his bride, with the customary politeness of Italy, dipped his fingers in the holy water and offered it to Imma to sprinkle herself; then took her hand, and led her to the epistle side of the altar. The priest took his station, and the witnesses stood in a semi-circle behind the young couple. The bride and bridegroom each at the moment thought of the late half-made marriage, and each looked at the other as though fearing a retributive interruption.

The priest began the service, and Buondelmonte and Imma. recalled their wandering thoughts. Each plighted the usual troth -the hands were joined-the ring was blessed, sprinkled with holy water, and placed on the slender finger of the bride. The priest prayed, exhorted, then gave his benediction to the now wedded pair, and Imma was the wife of Buondelmonte. The Widow kissed her daughter with mingled affection and gratified ambition. Buondelmonte gazed on her with a proud love, and the witnesses offered their congratulations on the alliance of the houses of Buondelmonte and Donati.

Then as the group stood awhile in the chapel, a recollection of the singularity of their situation struck each. Here were two principal members of the two most powerful Guelph houses in Florence, acting up to the wishes of their kindred, yet stealing in silence and haste a midnight wedding; the most beautiful, the most wealthy of Florentine females receiving the hand of a noble lover unadorned, unobserved, almost unattended, and destitute of

any of the pomp and circumstance of bridals. It was not with such "maimed rites" that the only child of the ostentatious Widow Donati should have wedded, but with public magnificence, surrounded by admiring crowds. La Donati felt her pride humbled, and sighed.

When Buondelmonte stood at the altar with Amidea, the bride could scarcely keep her thoughts from straying to the nameless grave of a dishonoured lover, and the bridegroom could not prevent himself from feeling that all his affections, all his happiness, were centred in another-the friend of his betrothed; yet every manifestation of joy and triumph was prepared to give eclat to those nuptials. The choristers stood ready to burst into a joyous anthem; the proudest in Florence were prepared to vie with each other in congratulations; the numerous kinsmen of each had their blessings starting to their lips; the populace without were only waiting to peal forth a joyous "viva"-nay, hostile factions were about to embrace in the general joy. Now, two devoted lovers, noble and wealthy, after surmounting obstacles that threatened eternal separation and incurable sorrow, had united their fates for ever without any demonstration of rejoicing, save the expression of their own countenances; no crowd of kinsmen and friends, no gorgeous apparel, no practised choir, no waving banners, no joyous viva; a funeral wreath upon a tomb was the sole unwonted ornament of the chapel. Imma's eye fell upon it, and her former secret dread returned, and she murmured

"Surely some instinct of ill omen guided my hand when I twined that chaplet. There is the Myrtle of Love combined with the Funeral Cypress; and this gloomy chapel looks like a vault, and the voice of the priest sounded like one who says the de profundis over a corpse."

"Hush! little complainer," replied Buondelmonte, trying to smile away her gloom. "Why are your perceptions so little in unison with mine? I see nothing but what is beautiful, bright, and endearing."

"No, I do not complain," answered the bride. "Of what could I complain now? But it is an ill compliment to the noble Buondelmonte that his nuptials are not more graced than those of the poorest citizen. We wed in strange privacy."

66

Because, dearest Imma," interrupted the bridegroom, "I could not wish to create too general an envy among the hopeless spectators."

Imma smiled at her husband-lover's compliment, and the little train retired from the chapel.

CHAPTER XXIV.

My soul beleaguer'd with the crushing strength
Of sharp impatience.

Antonio and Mellida.-J. Marston.

Next day the Donati took care to publish in Florence the news of the arrival of the dispensation from Rome, and the consequent marriage of Buondelmonte, which they hoped would put a stop to any jealous attempt on his life.

Some of the Guelphs were glad to find that the noble but unstable Buondelmonte was secured among themselves, and separated from Ghibelline influence; but some were still apprehensive of the future consequences of the breach with the Amidei.

The indignation of the Ghibellines was redoubled; they looked upon the hasty marriage as a repetition of the insult to Amidea; they thought themselves unjustly treated by the Pope's decision in contradiction to the prayer of their petition, and they accused the Guelphs of want of generosity and a latent desire for hostilities in not declaring against Buondelmonte, whom they pronounced ought to be at least exiled from Florence, to whose peace he had paid so little regard.

Mosca heard the news with jealous rage, but affected that his indignation was entirely on account of his injured cousin. But in the privacy of his own palazzo he vented his thoughts in lonely murmurings.

"Well, let them triumph; it is but for a short time. I shall find my way to his heart at last, were it trebly guarded; and then his beautiful widow shall become my beautiful bride, and she will be the fitter match for me, enriched with the magnificent dower of her some-time husband, in addition to her own patrimony. Perhaps I ought to thank him for rendering her a better prize for Mosca. But I will never forgive him for being preferred before me; I will never forgive the crafty mother for attempting to delude me. And even if the young widow of Buondelmonte never be my wife, I will yet annihilate him to punish La Donati. I will strike her through her daughter's affections, through her coveted son-in-law. I will be revenged, and that ere long."

Mosca had been so much enraged with Piero for his failure, that the latter had deemed it wise to absent himself, and now when Lamberti called for him, he was informed that Piero was not in the palace, nor had been for the last two days, and he was obliged to reserve whatever business he had with his fraternal agent.

Amidea heard of Buondelmonte's marriage with a pang of wounded pride. Her former suitor's preference for another was

formally established. She was woman enough to glance in her mirror at features which she acknowledged to be far inferior to those of her rival, and for a moment she repined, for a moment she thought

"How all-powerful is beauty! what a valuable gift to woman! If I do possess any other advantages over Imma, of what avail are they-eclipsed, or at best forgotten-overlooked? My feelings, my fate, were all to be sacrificed to a fortuitous advantage; to charms, the possession of which is no merit of hers; the deficiency in which is no fault of mine."

So thought Amidea, and it was natural for her to think thus for awhile; but her good sense and fortitude prevailed; she smiled at herself for her weakness; she became indifferent to Buondelmonte and his bride, and turned once more to muse on Florestan, whose memory now had undivided possession of her mind. She had persuaded herself into a full belief of his innocence, and had no doubt that the Glee-singers had been in some way or other interested calumniators, and that he whose song inspired hope had repented his calumny, and wished to repair it; while the other tworemained firm, for consistency's sake, in their former story. She felt some strong but undefined hope, that ere long the cloud that hung over her first lover's memory would be cleared away; and she could without a blush, without a doubt, devote her whole heart to his remembrance.

She said to Padre Severino, that many women who had been as unfortunate in their engagements as she had would have relinquished the world and retired to a convent; but she felt no inclination to such course, for she thought that self-dedication to Heaven ought to be undertaken from purer motives than earthly disappointments, and particularly while the wound was yet unhealed and the heart yet unsubdued.

She said she had still an interest in the world; it was to see Florestan's fame cleared, and then to devote herself to his memory for ever, as an indemnification for her involuntary and short-lived infidelity. Such devotedness, she said, was inconsistent with the religious duties of a cloister; she would therefore remain in the world, not of it. She would visit Arezzo and all its old haunts, and linger in that ruined amphitheatre, and make a fresh treasure from its ivy and wall-flowers. But she incessantly regretted the destruction of Florestan's picture—an irreparable loss; and her greatest indignation against Buondelmonte was, that as her pretended bridegroom he was the cause of her having deprived herself of that her most prized possession.

Buondelmonte and Imma, meantime, were happy. They both began to hope that the assassin, once so completely foiled, would never repeat his attempt; and Buondelmonte even persuaded his bride that it was possible the miscreant might have died of the